


Nineteen

by LydianNode



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Alcohol Misuse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bandmates as brothers, Bandmates as friends, Blood, Deacy can't keep a secret, Deacy serves quite a bit of very hot tea to Brian, Gen, Mentions of previous serious illness, Stitches, self-injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 17:56:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18783241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydianNode/pseuds/LydianNode
Summary: During a party on the night of 16 December, 1977, John Deacon drunkenly put his hand through a plate-glass window. This is a fictional version of what happened next."Tell you what," Brian said, trying to sound as if every movement of the needle didn't pierce his own heart. "While he's doing his thing, why don't we let you have a go at me? Anything you want to tell me and I won't say a word in my defense, for as long as it takes for him to do the sutures."When John's eyes lit up, Brian knew he was in for it.





	Nineteen

16-17 December, 1977  
San Diego, California, USA

 

At some point during the after-the-afterparty at the band's hotel, Brian had overheard an argument about the exact time and nature of the "witching hour." Was it three in the morning precisely, or some unspecified time when demonic events were supposed to occur? And what if there were no actual witches present?

The party had thinned out considerably since that conversation. Brian had long since sent an exhausted Chrissie off to bed, and even Roger had given up, departing in a cloud of marijuana fumes with his arms wrapped around two stunning redheads. Brian wanted nothing more than to be curled up beside his wife, but he was uneasy about Freddie and his hangers-on so he forced another cup of disgusting American coffee down his throat and sat in a corner of the room, watching for signs of distress.

Doubtless it was well past the "witching hour" when he heard the unmistakable crash of glass shattering. Perhaps a tray of glasses had been knocked over, or perhaps the champagne fountain itself had wound up on the floor. Bored of watching Freddie flirt with two strapping young men who were feeding him strawberries, champagne, and lies, Brian went to investigate.

One of the other rooms was now fully lit and a knot of people circled around something or someone on the ground near a shattered window. Brian recognised Chris Taylor by the thinning ponytail and the black Queen tour t-shirt. "What's going on, Chris?"

Chris turned to him, white-faced. "Thank God you're here!" he exclaimed. "It's...bad."

"What's going on?" Brian asked again, his eyes widening when he realised that Chris' hands were covered in blood. He didn't wait for a reply, instead using his height to peer over the crowd and find out for himself.

"He put his whole fucking arm through the window," Brian heard one of the staff whisper to another. "Real smart, when you're in a rock band."

In a rock band. Freddie and Roger were accounted for, so that left...

"John!" Brian felt the cry rip from his throat as he shoved his way through the onlookers. Not caring who he pushed aside, not bothering to apologise, he forced himself to the front of the crowd and found John lying on the floor in a puddle of his own blood.

_So much blood._

John's right arm looked like raw meat. Brian dropped to the floor at John's side, scarcely feeling the way his trousers were soaking up the sticky blue-red blood, and tried to see around the paramedic who was applying pressure to the gaping wounds.  
  
"Ambulance is just outside," he said, sparing Brian only a short glance before turning his attention back to the gruesome task. "I'm going to apply more pressure on the brachial artery."

Someone in the crowd yelled "Tourniquet!" but the paramedic told him to shut up.

"You want him to lose his arm? A tourniquet would do the trick." An ambulance attendant raced over, pushing a gurney, and together with the paramedic he lifted John's motionless body. "You coming with us?" they asked Brian, who couldn't do anything more than nod weakly in response as he followed behind. John was so limp, like a rag doll, his uninjured arm flopping back and forth as the gurney was pushed out of the hotel.

They got John situated in the ambulance and helped Brian jump in. Brian took hold of John's left hand as the paramedic continued working on his right arm. John's pulse was thin and thready under Brian's thumb. He knew he should be grateful for any sign of life, but there was so, so much blood, and John's face was so, so pale.

The siren wailing overhead was deafeningly loud, making Brian strain to hear the driver's call to the hospital. "We have a Caucasian male, late twenties, with severe lacerations to the right arm. Significant blood loss, venous, being treated with pressure and Ringer's lactate. ETA ten minutes."

Brian's thought processes were overwhelmed by three of those words: _significant blood loss_. He kept hold of John's hand while the paramedic started an intravenous line and hooked a bag up to it. "Do you know his blood type?" he asked.

"No. But I'm O-Negative. If I can be of any use, any use at all..." Brian stammered.

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. We should be at Scripps Mercy soon. It's got a great Emergency Department. They'll do everything they can."

_Everything they can?_

Brian leaned over John. There was a strong smell of bourbon on his breath and his lips were an unhealthy greyish-pink. "Hang in there, Deacy," he said, wincing at how tremulous his voice sounded. "I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere."

There was a slight flutter of the blue-veined eyelids but John did not rouse. Brian tore his gaze away and locked eyes with the paramedic. "Can he hear me?"

"Possibly. Hard to tell. We'll do a blood alcohol test at the hospital, see how far under he is. How much did he have to drink tonight?"

"I...I'm not sure. I wasn't watching him." Brian wracked his brain to try and recall how many drinks John had before the show, and possibly during if he had his mini-bar set up in an empty amp case. And God only knew how many he'd imbibed at the party, because Brian was observing Freddie when he obviously needed to be looking out for John, instead.

The paramedic patted Brian on the back. "Don't tear yourself up, buddy. He made his own decisions."

_Not very comforting, this.  
_

Numerous members of the staff were waiting at the ambulance dock, bustling around the gurney and pushing John into the building. One of the nurses, an older woman who reminded Brian of Freddie's mum, pulled him aside and gave him a clipboard to fill out. "Is there next of kin to be notified?" she inquired.

Brian thought of Veronica, seven months' pregnant and caring for little Robert on her own, and couldn't repress a shiver. "I'll talk to his wife. She's in London. The band...that is, we all have lasting power of attorney for one another in case of accident or illness." He touched his pockets as if there were even a faint hope of having the paperwork on him. It was a futile gesture since didn't have anything, not so much as a passport or even a billfold. "I'll need to call one of our road managers; he'll have all the papers."

"That's quite all right, sir. There's a telephone at the nurses' station that you're welcome to use, so long as you reverse the charges on the international call." She led Brian to a desk away from the bustle of the Emergency Department and motioned for him to sit. "I'll go check on your friend. Let me know how I can help you. I'm Nurse Datta, by the way."

"Brian." He held out his hand to shake hers. A pronounced tremor shook his fingers and he felt the warmth of her hand as she surreptitiously checked his pulse.

"I know you're worried, Brian. But this is a wonderful hospital, and people come in all the time in far, far worse shape and leave on their own steam. So, please, make your calls and I'll let you know what the doctors say."

He bit his lip and nodded, then reached for the telephone book. For an instant he was unable to remember the name of their hotel. Was it the Sheraton? Hopefully. He dialed the number and asked to be connected to Chris' room.

"Brian? Where are you? How's John?" Chris sounded extremely wound up, making Brian wonder if he might be high.

"I'm at a hospital called Scripps Mercy. John's being examined. Listen, Chris, I need the legal papers over here as soon as you can get a taxi. Call Jim Beach and have him contact the hospital about finances. And can you let Chrissie know where I am? I don't want her to worry."

"I'll be over shortly. What about Roger and Freddie?"

Brian ran the names over and over for a few seconds. "Roger's got girls in his room. I don't know where Freddie is. Maybe wait until you get back from the hospital so that you have more information, then play it by ear."

"What about you? Do you need anything?"

The sodden patches of John's blood felt heavy against Brian's knees. "Change of clothes. And one for Deacy as well, something without sleeves, can you manage it?"  
  
"Yeah. I'm on it."

Brian hung up the telephone. That was the easy part. Talking to Veronica would be a thousand times worse. The internal debate raged within; call her now, so that she knows as things are happening, or later when John is out of danger? He hated himself for being so indecisive. Roger would say to wait, that what she doesn't know wouldn’t hurt her. Freddie would definitely make the call himself, his own distress palpable across the distance. John, of course, would only step in after weighing the options and would come up with the perfect plan of action.

Perfect.

The only band member who ever thought logically in an emergency was the only one Brian couldn't ask.

Brian rested on the desk with his arms folded. His head felt heavy, as if John's problems were a physical weight, and he leaned his cheek against his wrist so he could look around the busy department.

Nurses and orderlies went quickly and efficiently from room to room. Brian's tired eyes registered them more as colours than people, green scrubs and white scrubs, and his ears were overwhelmed with monitors, PA system announcements, and, oddly, the squeak of trainers on tile flooring.

Christmas decorations, meant to lend a festive mood, only served to make the grimness of the situation starker by comparison. Comfort and joy were nowhere to be found as he watched doctors tend to people in terrible distress: car wreck, gunshot wound, seizure. They weren't even people, just symptoms. He wondered what they called John—probably "drunk who put his hand through a window."

Yet John was so much more than that.

As exhausted as Brian's body was, his mind was fully alert and working vehemently to lay the blame on himself.

 _You know nothing about this man._  
_All you ever do is pick fights, so of course he doesn't want to talk to you._  
_You're a shit confidante anyway, so self-absorbed._  
_Too arrogant to notice when a friend is in enough pain to do something like this._

The guilt pinging through Brian's system was replaced by sudden, icy dread when Nurse Datta came to him and took his hand, sitting on her heels so her face was level with his.

_No. No, no, no...  
_

"Brian? I need you to listen carefully to me, all right?" She stroked the back of his hand and waited until he was able to meet her eyes. "John is stable. That's the first, most important part. Let me know you understand that."

Brian nodded. His throat felt constricted, as if he couldn't take in more than the bare minimum of oxygen to prevent passing out altogether, but that seemed to be all the nurse was waiting for.

"Good. We've given him a tetanus shot. Next we need to suture the wound. He's already starting to wake up, so it'd be good if you were with him to lessen his anxiety. You're not squeamish, I hope?"

_In his nightmares, he sees the raw stump above his elbow bleeding endlessly over his guitar, his damaged arm with its green, bloated fingers half-hanging out of a garbage can.  
_

"Not particularly." He shook his head. "Not anymore."

Nurse Datta tugged at his hand, indicating that he should get up and follow her. Brian rose and started walking, his movements sluggish. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Chris running up to the desk with paperwork and a sack that Brian presumed was clothing. For later. Later.

John was in a curtained partition, away from the prying eyes and cameras that might follow news of his exploits. He was propped up in a narrow bed, thick bandaging swallowing his right arm and an IV line running into the crook of his left elbow. His eyes were closed, his eyelashes dark against the pallor of his face. Someone had opened his shirt; John's bare chest moved up and down with little, hitching breaths as if he were fighting tears.

"I've been there, Deacs," Brian murmured as he sat on the plastic chair next to the bed. He slipped his fingers through John's and gave them a squeeze. "You're okay."

Brian didn't quite know what to expect when John turned his head and blinked at him. "Brian? What...?"

"What do you remember?" Brian asked.

Frowning, John closed his eyes again. "Glass," was all he said before he tried and failed to sit all the way up.

"You're pretty cut up, but they'll put in some stitches and you'll be fine," Brian reassured him as he gently pressed against John's chest to hold him still.

John brought his left hand to his face and felt it. "Where?"

"Right arm," Brian said softly. "But you're gonna be okay, just stitches, no, Deacy, don't panic—"

His words came too late. John's face drained of what little colour it had as he looked over at the wad of bandages protecting his right arm, and the heart monitor began beeping in a rapid, arrhythmic pattern. "I can't feel my fingers," John whimpered. "I can't feel anything, oh, my God..."

Nurse Datta bustled into the cubicle, frowning at the meters. "Mister Deacon, we need you to calm down. This isn't doing you any good."

"I don't have any feeling in my fingers!"

"That's because we numbed your arm so we can put in stitches. That's all the pain medication we can give you." She turned her attention to Brian. "His blood alcohol was almost two percent. That's the verge of alcohol poisoning."

_Poisoning?  
_

Brian nodded. His mouth was dry and his hands began sweating. "How is that treated?"

"We're giving him IV fluids with glucose to combat dehydration and stabilise his blood sugar. Luckily, we didn't have to intubate him or pump his stomach."

Brian's hand went involuntarily to his own throat. He remembered all too clearly the helplessness of having a breathing tube and the pain of its removal. He wouldn't wish that on anyone, and certainly not Deacy. The pressure of John's fingers on his wrist brought him back to the present. "So what happens now?"

"Now we'll have Doctor Bailey come in to do the closure. He does very neat work; you might not even have much scarring if you follow his after-care instructions to the letter." She leaned over John and brushed the hair off of his forehead. "And that's going to have to include cutting way, way back on the alcohol consumption, young man."

John swallowed hard and nodded, then closed his eyes again. "Sorry, Bri," he rasped.

"Don't, not right now, okay? Just concentrate on feeling better."

_Or at least well enough so you don't have to anesthetise yourself with booze.  
_

"Who else knows?" John inquired softly.

"Officially? Just Chris and me. Unofficially...whoever was at the party." Brian patted John's hand. "Chris was by a few minutes ago to drop off paperwork and some clean clothes for us. We can take a taxi back to the hotel once they release you, and you can sleep for a few hours before we get on the bus."

"Okay." John seemed to be sobering up more as each minute ticked by, and when he looked at Brian his eyes were clear. "What about Ronnie?"

"I haven't called her yet. I thought I'd wait until we had nothing but good news to tell her. Was that the right thing to do? With the baby, and all?"

A little shrug was John's only reply.

Metal screeched against metal as someone opened the curtain. A doctor came in, a sturdy, grey-haired man whose gaze seemed to take in enormous amounts of information as he looked from John to Brian and back again. "I'm Doctor Bailey. I understand one of you had a difference of opinion with a plate-glass window?"

"That would be me," John said breezily, but Brian could see fear in the way his grey eyes widened.

"I assumed so, since you're the one with the IV and the bandages. Let's see the damage." Doctor Bailey sat on a small rolling stool and approached John's arm with curiously long-handled scissors. He snipped away at the layers of bandaging and opened them like a giant clamshell.

Brian had to swallow fast to keep the bile from rising in his throat. Long tracks of red ran from John's palm almost to the elbow, blood congealing thickly along the furrows. John looked, blanched, and looked away. Tears formed in his eyes, sliding down his cheeks. "Oh, God, no..."

"Take it easy, son, I've patched up worse than this just in the last two hours." The doctor adjusted his glasses and reached for a tray beside the bed. "You're a musician, they tell me, is that right?"

"I play the bass," John whispered. "Or, at least, I did. Until tonight."

Brian stroked his hair. "You're going to be just fine when this is over, you'll see." He didn't know where he found the strength to say those words, the ones Freddie had once crooned into his own ear.

The doctor nodded. "Everything looks like it should heal up fine. When you get home, you should have a nerve conduction survey, just to make absolutely sure nothing vital got nicked. Although I can say that so far you seem incredibly lucky, if not particularly intelligent in your choice of punching bags." He cleaned the blood away and inspected the cuts. "I can close this with about ten stitches if you promise not to use the arm for at least a week."

"Absolutely," Brian affirmed, but John cut him off.

"I need to play tomorrow night."

"Deacy..."

John set his jaw and looked Doctor Bailey in the eye. "I'll be careful the other twenty-two hours of the day, but I need those two hours. Please."

"Hmm. You could've just lied to me, but you clearly are willing to go the extra mile to ensure that you heal completely. So..." he ran a gloved finger along John's arm. "I think I can do it in twenty, closer together to give you more mobility right away. Might leave more of a scar in the end, though."

"I don't care about that. Let's just...get it over with." He turned his head away and locked eyes with Brian, setting his lips tightly together. He looked so frightened that Brian felt a sympathetic lump in his throat.

"Hey, mate, it could be worse," he murmured.

"I don't really see how."

"Could've been gangrene." Brian meant it in jest but John glared at him.

"See? That's what you do." He settled grumpily against the pillow, wincing as Doctor Bailey made the first suture and tied it neatly. "You make everything about yourself."

"I'm sorry." Brian's tongue felt stiff in his mouth. He squeezed John's hand again. "It was supposed to make you laugh."

"Didn't work." His words came out high and fast as the second suture went in. Brian could see the workings inside John's mind, half anger at Brian's thoughtlessness and half fear of what was being done to his arm.

"Tell you what," Brian said, trying to sound as if every movement of the needle didn't pierce his own heart. "While he's doing his thing, why don't we let you have a go at me? Anything you want to tell me and I won't say a word in my defense, for as long as it takes for him to do the sutures."

When John's eyes lit up, Brian knew he was in for it.

"Really? No retaliation, no long-suffering sighs?"

"Not a single one. I promise you."

As the needle went in a third time, Brian could see a smirk forming on the doctor's face.

John took in a long, slow lungful of air and let it out even slower, the way he always did when he was gathering his thoughts. He glanced down at their joined hands, then met Brian's gaze with a curiously soft expression. "You know I think of you as a brother, right?" Brian just squeezed his hand, and John continued. "I'm not trying to hurt you. I just need to get this off of my chest. So. First off, I was the last person to join the band, so I'm the last person you consult. About anything. It used to be all three of you doing that, but now it's just you. I'd like to be first once in a while."

_Fair enough._

"Next, and I don't know if you know this, but when you were out with the ulcer and we had to erase your guitar work, the studio hacks wanted me to play in your place. I said no. Repeatedly."

Brian had never heard this before. He opened his mouth to say something, remembered his promise, and closed it again.

"You're welcome," John said softly in response to Brian's wordless thanks. "Then there's Freddie. We're all chasing his approval, all the time. Roger and I know it, and we can laugh at ourselves over it, but you do it without knowing and that drives us crazy."

The truth stung, but Brian just set his jaw and nodded.

"The guitar solos, Brian. They're becoming a bit...baroque. Or rococo. Whichever one has the fattest, most ridiculous cherubs. I'm still a little drunk so I can't remember. Yeah, it's great that we can go offstage for a few minutes while you take over, and thanks for that, but you're putting them everywhere. If I wrote a song about filling my car with petrol, you'd stick in a ten-minute guitar solo."

It was obvious that John had been thinking about this for a while, which made Brian bite down hard on his lips to keep from saying anything.

"Also, you should know that Ratty doesn't much like you."

_That's not news. He's got a thing for Freddie and the rest of us don't rate with him.  
_

"He thinks you're arrogant, and that you use your solos to show off. I've tried telling him he's wrong, but a little piece of me agrees with him and wishes you'd take it down a few notches."

Doctor Bailey tried to cover his laugh by coughing. Brian scowled at him. "Sorry. Just one more, so if you have anything else to say you'd better get going."

"Lucky you, Brian." John's expression was firm but not cruel. "Roger and I are the rhythm section of Queen. We're NOT your backing group. We're equal partners and—"

"Done," the doctor put in quickly.

Brian and John turned to look at his handiwork. Nineteen neat black stitches stood along the inside of John's forearm down to the center of his palm. John, grimacing at the pain, wiggled his fingers experimentally.

"Keep everything as still as possible." Antiseptic cream and bandages were placed over the tidy row of stitches, and an elastic wrap held everything in place. "This needs to stay dry, so just sponge baths for the next week unless you have someone to help you. In about ten days you can have your own doctor take the stitches out. And do look into having the nerve conduction survey done." He picked up a sling and draped it over John's left shoulder, bringing the right arm close to his chest. "It can be a rather painful procedure, so if you want to bring a friend for distraction..."

Brian rolled his eyes heavenward. "I think I've had enough home truths for one lifetime," he muttered. John's face brightened somewhat.

"I'll have Nurse Datta come in with the discharge papers, then you can get on your way. But please, take it easy on the arm AND the booze. Next time you might not be so lucky."

"Thank you," John and Brian said in chorus as the doctor left and the nurse came in bearing the bag of clothing.

"Do you need me to show you how to wrap one of these bandages?" she asked as she handed the bag over to Brian and put a clipboard on the bed.

"We're familiar with it," John said before Brian had a chance to answer, and the look he gave Brian was fond. "He had worse trouble with his arm a few years ago. Except, unlike me, his wasn't his fault."

"John..."

"Then I'll leave you to help your friend get dressed," Nurse Datta interrupted, but she was smiling as she added, "I'll call a cab for you" and pulled the curtain behind her.

Slowly, John brought his legs to the edge of the bed and dangled his feet. He raised his head and gasped. "Is that MY blood?" He pointed at Brian's trousers.

"Yeah. I think these are done for." Brian shimmied out of them, threw them in the trashcan, and put on the jeans Chris had brought him, then took out a clean t-shirt for John. "He cut the arm off, smart lad."

It took a few minutes and several muffled curses to get John out of the bloodstained shirt and into the fresh one. He moaned in relief when his arm went back into the sling. "You're gonna have to sign me out."

Smiling, Brian picked up the pen, signed the document, and left it on the chair. "Let me give you a hand," he told John.

John's legs wobbled when he stood up and he allowed Brian to support him. His steps were shuffling and uneven, the walk of a much older man. The corridor was strangely empty; Brian didn't feel the hairs on his neck prick up the way they usually did when he sensed a photographer nearby. They made their way slowly out of the Emergency Department, where a taxi was waiting for them.

Brian gave the name of the hotel and sat back, pulling John close. John was too exhausted to protest. His head tipped sideways and ended up on Brian's shoulder.

"Does it hurt?"

"A bit. Not too bad, considering. Do you think I'm running a temperature?"

Brian ran his fingers over John's forehead. "No. It's probably just the...whatever it was you were drinking, plus the stress." He ran his fingers down to the end of John's nose and poked it. "That's for scaring the shit out of me."

Unabashed, John sniffed at Brian's fingertips. "Your fingers always smell like mine, all metallic from the strings. It's the only thing we have in common, other than being in the band."

It hurt to hear John say that, but Brian just accepted it in silence, keeping his arm around John's shoulders until they reached the hotel.

John's gait was more normal as they went down the hall to their rooms. When Brian opened John's door, Roger and Freddie jumped up to greet them.

"Oh, DARLING!" Freddie cried, wringing his hands. "What did you DO to yourself? And how on earth did it happen?"

"Honestly," John said as he submitted to a tender hug, "I don't even remember. I was having a drink, then I was on the way to the hospital. The rest is a blur."

Roger, pale and serious, patted John on the shoulder. "All the same, man, that wasn't news we wanted to hear in the middle of the night." He had the grace not to mention what he'd been up to when he heard, for which Brian was quietly grateful. "How are you feeling, Deacy?"

"I needed some stitches, that's all. I'm fine, but HE was woozy," John said, indicating Brian. "If seeing blood makes you go all funny, Bri, you'd better stay out of the delivery room when the baby's born."

Silence fell heavily in the room.

Brian's knees felt weak. He stumbled over his own feet and only Roger's quick intervention kept him from falling over altogether. He looked from Roger, who was grinning like the Cheshire Cat, over to Freddie, who was positively vibrating with excitement.

John sat down heavily on the bed and buried his face in his hands. "Oh. Shit. Shit, you weren't supposed to know until the last night of the tour."

Sniffing haughtily, Freddie declared, "Really, Deacy, and you've been telling ME to be careful and not let the cat out of the bag?"

"You knew?" Brian asked breathlessly. "Roger, you too?"

Roger scuffed the toe of his trainer along the carpet. "Chrissie told Ronnie. Ronnie told John, because she thought he should look after her on the trip. John told me a couple of days ago, and I told Freddie. "

"And I told exactly NO one," put in Freddie. "Unlike Mister Can't-Keep-A-Secret-To-Himself over here."

"Well, he did write 'Misfire,' you know," Roger deadpanned.

Laughing, giddy with happiness, Brian's unaccustomed feeling of pure joy ricocheted through him like bubbles in champagne. He took a seat next to John on the bed. "I can't believe it. I'm gonna be a father."

John let out a despondent groan. "Chrissie just wanted to be sure everything was okay before she told you. It was early days yet, so she wanted to be careful not to worry you or disappoint you if...well, you know, if it didn't quite 'take.' And now, after everything I said to you at the hospital, I had to go and do this."

"What's this 'everything' you said at the hospital?" asked Freddie as he gently pushed John down on the bed and began taking his shoes off for him.

"It's nothing. We were chatting while the doctor sewed him back together. Now it's your turn to take over, Freddie." Brian shot John a sympathetic glance, at which John smiled shyly back at him.

Roger walked over to Brian and patted him on the arm. "We'll make sure he's nowhere near alcohol. I'll keep his arm elevated and we'll put ice on it if it swells. Fred won't let him lift a finger. He'll be fine."

Knowing full well the level of mother-hen behaviour Freddie was capable of in a serious situation, Brian knew John would be amply, if lovingly, punished for his indiscretion. Freddie was already tutting over the bandages and insisting that John lie down and eat something as John tried to tell him that those two things were inherently contradictory.

The likelihood of Roger making the "Misfire" joke twenty-seven more times was just the icing on the cake.

John started to apologise again. "I'm sorry I blew the surprise," he began, but Brian cut him off.

"I promise to be exquisitely surprised when Chrissie makes the announcement," Brian said, his hand over his heart.

Freddie put the finishing touches on the cocoon of pillows he was building around John's arm. "There, darling. You're perfectly safe, now. Are you sure you don't want something to eat or drink?"

"Maybe a glass of water for later?" John asked, and Freddie was off like a shot to comply. John grinned at Brian. "I really am sorry. About all of it."

"Don't be," Brian said. He ruffled John's hair. "You didn't say anything that wasn't completely honest."

John smiled, then settled down into much-needed sleep. Roger took a spot on the other side of the bed, checking John's injured hand. "Looks good."

Freddie returned, a glass of water in his hand, and peered down into John's relaxed face. He set the glass down on the nightstand and sat next to Brian, resting against his shoulder. "Bri, darling? What DID Deacy say to you in the hospital?"

Roger came closer in order to hear his answer as well. Brian sighed. "He just told me the truth about some things. I'm glad he did; I need to be a better man before I can be a father."

"You're already a marvelous man." God bless Freddie, always so quick with a kind word. "And you're going to be a great father." He swept Brian's hair away from his face and gave him a quick kiss on the temple. "Now, go back to your room and do a much better job of keeping secrets than our Deacy."

"I'll do that." Brian stood up, wincing at the stiffness in his joints. "Good night, guys. See you on the bus in..." he looked at his watch and pulled a face. "...about four hours."

"Take care, darling."

"Good night, Bri. And congratulations."

Still floating with the elation of impending fatherhood, Brian made his way quietly into his own room and made quick work of taking off his clothes. He heard the rustling of sheets and saw Chrissie sit up against the headboard. "Chris told me what happened. Did John have to stay in the hospital?" she asked around a yawn.

"He's back in his room. Had to have nineteen stitches, but he'll be okay. Roger and Fred are looking after him."

"Oh, God. Poor Deacy; Freddie will wake him up every ten minutes to ask if he's asleep." Chrissie held the blankets open so Brian could slide in beside her. She nestled against him, her soft hair gliding like satin against his chest. "He needs help, Brian."

"I know, sweetheart," he whispered back. "We'll take care of him. That's what fa—brothers do."

Chrissie made a small, contented noise and relaxed in his embrace. He kissed the top of her head. He would have to learn to be a father, but he had Freddie's kind-heartedness, Roger's enthusiasm, and John's honesty to use as role models.

Something good came out of the witching hour, after all, he thought as he drifted off to the sweetest of dreams.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have a tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lydiannode - come talk to me!


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